I couldn't take my eyes off him. Like a desert wanderer afraid of mirages, I gazed at my oasis, but he was real.

I couldn't take my eyes off him. Like a desert wanderer afraid of mirages, I gazed at my oasis, but he was real.

Laura Whitcomb
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He kissed me for a long moment, holding my shoulders, perhaps to keep me from pressing my whole body against his. Then he tried to lift my bag."My God," he said. "What happened?""I found out one may check out twenty books at a time from the school library.

Laura Whitcomb, A Certain Slant of Light
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Perhaps I couldn’t tickle the inside of his ear, but I could reach the mysterious curves of his mind.

Laura Whitcomb, A Certain Slant of Light
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I couldn't take my eyes off him. Like a desert wanderer afraid of mirages, I gazed at my oasis, but he was real.

Laura Whitcomb, A Certain Slant of Light
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I studied a crescent moon hung crooked in a plum purple sky and thought about what it would be like to truly be seen.

Laura Whitcomb, A Certain Slant of Light
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As I look around the quiet room, I see a thousand leather covers like doorways into worlds unknown.

Laura Whitcomb, A Certain Slant of Light
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A sea of dreams trapped in a span of pressed pages

Laura Whitcomb, A Certain Slant of Light
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It was all real and blazing with detail. But I was shadow, light as mist, mute as the wallpaper.

Laura Whitcomb, A Certain Slant of Light
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Books are boring," James said as he wrote."They line the walls like a thousand leather doorways to be opened into worlds unknown," I offered.

Laura Whitcomb, A Certain Slant of Light
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The library smells like old books — a thousand leather doorways into other worlds. I hear silence, like the mind of God. I feel a presence in the empty chair beside me. The librarian watches me suspiciously. But the library is a sacred place, and I sit with the patron saint of readers. Pulsing goddess light moves through me for one moment like a glimpse of eternity instantly forgotten. She is gone. I smell mold, I hear the clock ticking, I see an empty chair. Ask me now and I'll say this is just a place where you can't play music or eat. She's gone. The library sucks.

Laura Whitcomb, A Certain Slant of Light
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